


The Flu

by heavenorspace, twobirdsonesong



Series: A Boy and His Wolf [6]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: A Boy and His Wolf, Alive Hale Family, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Comfort, Confessions, Cuddling & Snuggling, Cuddly Derek, Developing Relationship, Drabble, Fever Dreams, Identity Reveal, M/M, Sick Character, Sickfic, Time Skips, Wolf Derek, but not really, sterek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-05
Updated: 2014-04-05
Packaged: 2018-01-18 07:40:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1419973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heavenorspace/pseuds/heavenorspace, https://archiveofourown.org/users/twobirdsonesong/pseuds/twobirdsonesong
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles comes down with the flu and Derek comes to take care of him, but Stiles thinks it's only just a dream.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Flu

**Author's Note:**

> A Boy and His Wolf is a collaborative project between [heavenorspace](http://archiveofourown.org/users/heavenorspace/pseuds/heavenorspace) and myself.
> 
> It will be a series of vignettes, out of chronological order, set in a world where Derek, in the form of a wolf, first encountered Stiles when he was a toddler playing in the woods. Derek is under strict pack orders not to reveal himself as werewolf to the human boy and must only interact with him as a wolf. When Stiles is a child, their relationship is strictly platonic and protective in nature. As Stiles grows older that begins to change.
> 
> Each drabble will be accompanied by a piece of art drawn by heavenorspace.

(art by heavenorspace)

 

Stiles is not sick.  He’s _not_. So maybe his nose is a little stuffy and maybe his chest is feeling tight.  Tight, _not_ congested. Because congested would mean he’s getting sick, which he’s not.  He’s just gonna lie down for a little bit before he gets started on his homework, just rest his eyes for a few minutes.  That’s all.

 

But when his dad gets home from the station that night and takes one look at him – curled up on the sofa under two blankets with a pile of used tissues and staring blankly at the TV – it doesn’t matter.

 

“All right, up you go.”  The Sheriff gets him to his feet and then helps him up the stairs to his bedroom because his legs are suddenly feeling soft and wobbly.  Like Jello. Or pudding.  Maybe a flan.  Stiles blanches.

 

The Sheriff pauses in the hallway, concern etched all over his face.  “Are you going to be sick?”

 

Stiles shakes his head.  “Nope.”  And then the Sheriff leads him into the bathroom where he promptly vomits into the toilet. 

 

There’s a big hand on his back, rubbing slow calming circles, and Stiles coughs weakly.   He can feel how sweaty he is already.  “It’s ok, son.”

 

Stiles groans.  He doesn’t even bother protesting when his dad wipes his face with a cool washcloth and then gives him a glass of water to wash his mouth out with.  He really does love his dad.

 

“Love you too, son,” the Sheriff says, smiling, and oh, Stiles said that out loud.

 

The Sheriff gets him into bed and under the covers and Stiles is so grateful that he got into sweatpants as soon as he got home from school because he doesn’t have the energy to change his clothes right now. He’s getting flushed, dizzy, and his whole body feels like an overcooked noodle.  Or a waterbed.  Something wobbly and not all together.

 

“M’not that sick,” Stiles mumbles as he accepts the handful of pills his dad gives him to swallow down.  But even he can feel how he’s radiating too much body heat, never mind the pounding that taken up residence in his head or the cough that’s building in his chest.  He lifts his head to set the glass aside and the world swims around him.

 

“Yeah, sure.”  The Sheriff pulls the covers up around him, tucking him in. “You get some sleep, okay? I’m gonna make some soup for when you wake up.  And you better sleep. I don’t want to come up here and catch you researching the plague or something.”

 

“Did you know that what’s commonly referred so as ‘the Plague’ was actually the second plague of the Middle Ages? There was also-”

 

“Stiles.”

 

He closes his eyes dutifully and gratefully. “Going to sleep now.” The Sheriff nods. “Hey, Dad?”

 

“Yeah?”  
  
“Could you open the window a little?  It’s a little warm.”  He pouts, just in case.

 

“That’s the fever,” the Sheriff answers, but he crosses the room anyway and shoves Stiles’ window open enough to let a nice, cool breeze in.

 

“Thanks,” Stiles mumbles.  His body is growing heavier and heavier, sinking into the mattress.

 

“Good night, Stiles.”  His dad turns the lights out and closes the door.

 

Stiles sleeps.

 

***

 

When he opens his eyes again there is a wolf in his bed.

  
Stiles grins.  “Heeeeeeey buddy,” he drawls, tongue thick and dry in his mouth.  His nose is so stuffed he can hardly breathe and a headache pounds behind his eyes.  When he moves, it feels like something is sloshing around inside his head, so he stays still.  But the window is closed and his wolf is pressed up all along his side, warm and comforting and real, and Stiles doesn’t even care how he got inside his room.

 

The wolf comes closer, crawling up the bed to sniff curiously at Stiles’ mouth and his nose.  Stiles breathes out hotly and the wolf snorts, pulling back and shaking his head.  Stiles laughs and the wolf shoves his muzzle into Stiles’ damp armpit, sniffing loudly and causing Stiles to jerk away at the tickling sensation.

 

“What?”  Stiles asks, when the wolf lifts his head up at him with a serious look that says, _“You smell funny.”_

 

“Yeah, well, I feel funny, so.  Sorry about my stench.”

  
The wolf wrinkles his brow and gets to his paws, stepping carefully over Stiles and leaning over to the nightstand.  Stiles runs his fingers along the wolf’s flank, scratching through the soft, thick fur.

 

The wolf taps a huge paw on Stiles’ chest and then makes a soft whining noise as he bumps his nose against the glass of water that’s sitting on the nightstand, left there with another packet of medicine by the Sheriff.

 

“Fine, fine,” Stiles grumbles.  His whole body aches as he pushes himself up enough to drink the water and take the pills that his dad left for him. The water is soothing against his sore and swollen throat.  But that’s apparently all the energy he has because as soon as he sets the glass down he collapses back against the pillow.

 

The wolf ducks down and licks at his cheek as if to say, _“good boy.”_

 

“Being sick is so _stupid_ ,” he whines.  The wolf just snorts and jumps lightly off the bed, landing without a sound, which is good because Stiles is pretty sure his dad would not be happy to find the big animal in his bedroom right now.

  
Stiles watches as the wolf carefully walks the perimeter of the room, sniffing at the corners and checking the windows and the door.  The way he has for years.

 

“No monsters here,” Stiles says and the wolf looks over his shoulder at him.  “Thanks for taking care of me, buddy.”  He doesn’t mean for it to come out as seriously as it does, but it’s the truth.  The wolf has been with him for almost as long as he can remember.

 

The wolf blinks and then hops gracefully back up onto Stiles bed.  Inside of curling up at the foot of the bed like he usually does, he flops down next to Stiles and rests his great big head on Stiles’ chest.

 

“Oh,” Stiles mutters.  “Oh I see how it’s gonna be.  I’m sick and you just take over.  Like you own the place.”  But Stiles loops his arm around the wolf and buries his fingers in his fur.

 

“I’m gonna sleep some more, okay?”  The wolf whuffs softly in agreement and Stiles sinks back down into restless sleep.

 

***

 

When Stiles wakes again Derek Hale is leaning over him.

 

Stiles blinks fuzzily in the dark room. The other boy is holding a washcloth in his hands and the damp fabric is blessedly cool against Stiles’ heated forehead.

 

So clearly the medicine he’s been taking is _way_ stronger than he thought it was.

 

“Oh,” he says.  “It’s you.”

 

Derek freezes, goes absolutely still next to him and his eyes flash an impossible gold in the dim room.

 

“Stiles, I-” Derek looks, well Stiles can’t quite describe how he looks, but _afraid_ is maybe the closest descriptor.

 

“It’s fine,” Stiles smiles dopily.  “I dream about you, so I might as well have a fever-induced hallucination about you too.”  He tries to reach out and pat Derek’s leg, but his limbs are so heavy and he’s so tired.

 

Derek swallows audibly and Stiles can see the bobbing of his Adam’s apple.  His cheeks are dark with scruff and his thick eyebrows are furrowed in concern. “You, you dream about me?” He asks, his voice small and choked.

 

“All the time.  But usually we’re in the forest.  It’s nice.  I feel safe.”  Stiles smiles, thinking of his favorite long dreams where he’s running barefoot through the trees with a tall and golden-eyed boy.  He’s always a little sad when he wakes up from those in the morning and he’s alone.

 

“Stiles,” Derek rumbles.  “You _are_ safe with me.”  The shadows of the room throw Derek into sharp chiaroscuro, highlighting his cheekbones and the stubbled line of his jaw.  He is wide-eyed and so serious.

 

Stiles blinks slowly, taking a long, deep breath and exhaling. “I know.”  His dreams aren’t usually this lucid, but it’s nice. It’s nice to talk to the boy he’s been thinking about for so long.

 

“Even though you don’t really talk to me, I still. I still feel,” Stiles swallows and winces at the ache.  “I still feel safe around you.  I don’t know why.  But you, you and the wolf.  I have a wolf you know.” Stiles finally reaches out and rests his hand on Derek’s leg, fingers flexing.  He doesn’t miss the way Derek’s muscle jump under his touch, or the way his peculiar eyes flash that almost unsettling gold color.   “He’s…my wolf.”

 

He really shouldn’t be telling anyone about his wolf, because it’s really sort of weird and is probably something meant to be a secret, but Derek is just an hallucination anyway or a dream or a figment of his fevered imagination so it’s not like it matters.  Not really.

 

Derek looks frozen in place and Stiles isn’t sure why. “Stiles, I’m…” he begins to say, but can’t seem to find the rest of his words.

 

“I like you, you know,” Stiles says, because why the fuck not?  It’s all in his head.

 

A thousand different emotions flit across Derek’s features, too fast for Stiles to categorize.  Derek presses his lips together and then draws the washcloth across Stiles’ forehead, down his cheek, and over his throat. There’s a tenderness in the touch that makes Stiles’ ache for reasons completely unrelated to his illness. The damp cool cloth feels so good against his flushed and sweaty skin that Stiles moans a little.

 

“I like you too,” Derek whispers lowly, like he’s afraid of the words.

 

Stiles smiles.  “You have to – you’re my imagination.  It’d be pretty fucked up and sad if my own dream boy didn’t like me.”

 

Derek smiles at him and somehow it’s bittersweet. Stiles scratches his fingers against Derek’s thigh and this time Derek’s other hand comes down to rest over his.  His palm is warm and Stiles tangles their fingers together, his eyes closing.  This is such a good dream.

 

“You should sleep,” Derek tells him, squeezing his hand gently and Stiles sighs happily.

 

“I _am_ asleep,” Stiles mutters.  He feels a hand carding through his hair, long fingers pushing the sweat-damp strands back from his forehead, and he opens his eyes to find Derek staring down at him, eyes so very intense.  Derek’s mouth is soft and so very close and for a hysterical moment Stiles wonders if Derek is going to kiss him.

 

But Derek brushes his thumb across Stiles’ cheekbone and leans back.  “Sleep. Don’t argue.”

 

Stiles nods and lets his eyes close again. And Derek doesn’t let go of his hand.

 

In the morning, Stiles’ fever has broken, but both Derek and the wolf are gone.


End file.
